Khosrow and Shirin

By Nezami Ganjavi and Dick Davis

Khosrow and Shirin is a love story by Nezami Ganjavi--considered the greatest medieval Persian romance poet--based on historical characters of the seventh-century Iranian court. Written 850 years ago, the narrative poem is presented here for the first time in a stunning modern-verse English translation by Dick Davis, the pre-eminent translator of Persian poetry.

The love between an Iranian prince (Khosrow) and an Armenian princess (Shirin) is at the center of this tumultuous tale in which the exigencies of politics and warfare intertwine with no less powerful forces of erotic desire and the quest for personal and spiritual fulfilment.

Nezami vividly dramatizes the clash between heroism and sensuality as they are pitted against the desire for the amenities of order and humane civilization. These marvelously presented discordant themes result in a complex love story based on conflicting concepts of love, one regarding the beloved as a prize to be conquered and possessed, the other unrequited and all-consuming, relishing the very notion of the annihilation of the self through love.

Davis has captured the energy and poetry of Nezami's original in a delightful, contemporary idiom, and given us a story to read aloud, to savor, and to treasure for its luminous lyrical mastery. Davis's superb introduction and textual commentary provide insightful background information for the general reader and scholar alike, intensifying the strength of Davis's translation. Khosrow and Shirin will enchant both the classicist and the general reader, to captivate a new audience for Nezami's masterpiece.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mage Publishers Inc.
• Release date: Jan 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9781949445749

Book preview

The Beginning of the Tale of Khosrow and Shirin

That earlier poet1 who recalled the stories

Of ancient heroes, and of former glories,

This is the stirring history that he told:

King Kasra’s2 moon had dimmed as he grew old,

And as his life was ending he passed on

The royal throne to Hormoz, his loved son.

Hormoz ruled justly, happy to maintain

His father’s practices throughout his reign;

A generous king, whose pious contributions

Upheld religion and its institutions.

He longed to have a child, and so he made

Appropriate sacrifices, watched and prayed,

Until in answer to his constant prayer

God gave Hormoz a noble son and heir –

A pure pearl in the sea of sovereignty,

A lamp whose origin was heavenly,

Whose horoscope foretold that when he’d grown

He’d wear the crown and occupy the throne.

His father saw his kingly qualities

And named his newborn son Khosrow Parviz,3

A princely name, and men respected him,

Fluttering like birds whose wings protected him.

The silk in which his nurse had wrapped each limb

Like cotton round a pearl safeguarded him,

And she fed sugar to him to augment

Her breast milk with its sweetening nourishment;

Like a bouquet of roses, he was brought

To royal feasts, and handed round the court.

And then the time came for this royal heir

To leave his cradle for the public square,

To have him face the world, which came to meet him

And with heartfelt benevolence to greet him.

When he was five, each new event was turned

Into a lesson that he promptly learned –

Each year that passed, his talents multiplied

While wisdom deepened and intensified.

At seven, his musky curls seemed to embrace

The pink-red roses of his lovely face –

His beauty gained such fame, it was as though

You’d say that Joseph4 had replaced Khosrow.

His father hired a teacher, to prevent

Prince Khosrow’s days from being idly spent –

Time passed, and in a little while Khosrow

Mastered the skills a sovereign has to know.

His speeches were a sea of eloquence

That scattered pearls of meaning and good sense,

Accurate as an astrolabe, hair-splitting,

Set out in language elegant and fitting.

At nine he left his childish games behind,

Dragons and lions now occupied his mind –

His sword would fend off lions’ claws, or render

A tree trunk like a reed, as frail and slender.

Thirty-year-olds, adroit, accomplished men,

Were trounced by Prince Khosrow when he was ten;

His swift, unerring arrows could split hairs,

His lance rip through chainmail a warrior wears,

And outperforming all adversaries,

His lariat could snare ten enemies

(Ten warriors’ lariats could not achieve

The feats his leather lariat would weave;

One arrow shot by him would do away

With more men than nine tempered swords could slay).

If the white demon5 were his enemy

How it would tremble, like a willow tree!

When he reached ten, his feathers fledged – that is,

The wings of comprehension were now his –

He saw the world, and sought to recognize

The good and bad that lay before his eyes.

There was a noble counsellor at the court,

A man to give advice and shrewd support;

His name, Bozorg-Omid, Great Hope, implied

The heavens themselves would always be his guide,

And in his hands he held the secret key

That opened heaven’s hidden treasury.

Behind closed doors, the prince approached this lord

Whose noble words cut like an Indian sword,

This sea within whose depths rich gemstones lay,

Anxious to hear whatever he might say;

The prince’s heart took fire as he was taught

The precepts and the wisdom he had sought.

From Saturn’s course down to the earth’s foundation

He took in all of heaven’s wide creation

And slowly Khosrow’s inner life became

A sea of all the knowledge you could name –

His wakened heart emerged from lethargy,

He’d stepped out on the path to sovereignty.

Now heaven’s spy6 had spoken, and he’d learned

The secret ways in which the heavens turned,

To own the world seemed like a lesser thing

Than righteous service as an honored king.

To regulate the laws of his domain

And guarantee his son a lengthy reign,

Hormoz decreed new measures meant to thwart

Ignoble aims, and cut wrongdoing short.

He had a herald cry, "One who depends

On violence to achieve his wretched ends,

Woe to that man! Likewise, if he should own

A horse that grazes where men’s crops are sown,

Or if a man steals fruit, or he contrives

To pester people’s daughters or their wives,

Or requisitions someone’s house … he’ll see

The punishment that he deserves from me."

Hormoz then swore he wouldn’t be deterred

From rigorously keeping to his word,

And so the world revived, restored and free

From troublemakers and dishonesty.

Khosrow Goes Hunting, and then to a Farmer’s House

One morning Fate decreed Khosrow should ride

For pleasure through the pleasant countryside:

He hunted game on this delightful day

Until he glimpsed a village, far away,

Surrounded by green fields, and there he laid

A carpet and some cushions in the shade.

He drank red wine until the yellow sun

Drooped like a flower; the day was almost done.

The azure ramparts of the sky displayed

The sun’s flag as its gold began to fade,

And then the castle’s queen was forced to flee

Burning sweet scents in pungent sorcery;

Their smoke is like her black protective veil –

She rides full tilt, but all to no avail,

Threatening the skies with her still glittering sword;

The dark earth weakens her, defeat’s assured –

On water now she casts aside her shield

That’s like a lily pad, since she must yield.7

The villagers supplied Khosrow’s request,

A house to drink in with his friends, and rest.

They drank together till the night was gone

And in the dawn the revels still went on

While music’s sweet intoxicating sound

Accompanied the wine as it went round.

Such flasks of wine they drank – wine that revives

The world itself, and animates men’s lives!

Meanwhile their Afghan slave boy slipped outside

To pilfer unripe grapes that he had spied,

While Khosrow’s horse, untethered, could be found

Grazing on crops, on cultivated ground.

The shining sun rose, and the head of night

Was severed from day’s body by its light.

The night was like a raven, and the sun

Its golden egg now morning had begun,

Leaving the darkness as it rose on high

Beneath the parrot-colored8 morning sky.

Acknowledging that it had been defeated,

The night laid down its charcoal and retreated.

Spies lurking in the prince’s company

Went telling tales to Hormoz secretly;

They said to him, "Last night Khosrow behaved

Like someone who’s ill-mannered and depraved,

As if he had no fear of what you thought

And could ignore the rules that he’s been taught."

The king said, I know nothing he’s done wrong.

The spies replied, "That slave he took along,

The Afghan boy, thought he would make a meal

Of all the unripe grapes that he could steal,

While Khosrow’s horse meandered off, and went

Through young crops, grazing to its heart’s content;

Khosrow had commandeered a poor man’s house

In which to drink and noisily carouse

Throughout the night; what’s more, his music woke

And scandalized the village womenfolk.

If all this careless mischief had been done

By anyone except your princely son,

You’d have him stripped of his all wealth, and made

To understand that rules must be obeyed:

A hundred wretches’ blood is shed, but when

A relative’s at fault, we think again

And hesitate to plunge the fatal knife

Into the scoundrel’s veins and take his life!"

Out with your daggers, cried the king, "to sever

His horse’s hamstrings, cripple him forever!

And see you give that thieving jackanapes,

The young slave, to the owner of the grapes."

They poured the wine and rose water away,

And gave the trappings brought out on that day,

The throne included, to the peasant whose

Poor house Khosrow’d insisted he would use.

They broke the harpist’s nails and confiscated

The harp’s silk strings, as Hormoz had dictated.

Look at the punishment, at what was done

Not to a stranger, but the king’s own son –

Where will one find such reprimands for sin?

Who deals in this way with his closest kin?

You say that you are Moslems, to your shame –

This king, who worshipped Zoroaster’s flame,

Exemplified what Moslems ought to be.9

But that’s enough of preaching, Nezami –

No more advice! Your tale’s where you belong –

The bird of wisdom sings a bitter song.

Hormoz Punishes Khosrow

Khosrow perceived he’d been humiliated

And brooded on the trouble he’d created;

He recognized that he’d done wrong, and saw

His father had abided by the law.

He beat himself about the head, then paused,

Reflecting on the problems that he’d caused.

He urged a few old men to intercede

For him, and take him to the king to plead

His cause, and then perhaps the king might let

His sins be errors that he could forget.

Khosrow arrayed his body in a shroud,

And carried a drawn sword; crowds cried aloud

As though the world’s last judgment had begun

To see wise elders lead a royal son

Who sought forgiveness, who contritely came

As though he were a captive, filled with shame.

He reached the throne and groveled in the dust

As convicts do, and wept with self-disgust,

And cried, "O king, cut short my punishment,

Choose magnanimity, be lenient;

I’m Joseph, not a bloodstained wolf;10 don’t hate

This lowly fool, although his sins are great.

My mouth still breathes the scent of milk, don’t be

The lion11 who scents my blood and seizes me;

Pity your foolish son, who cannot bear

His father’s wrath, who trembles in despair.

If I have sinned, then let me pay for it,

My neck awaits your sword, and I submit;

I can bear every grief, except for one –

That you are disappointed in your son."

And having said these words, he wept and bowed

His lovely head, before the weeping crowd;

The noise of weeping reached the moon, and moved

The king to reassure the son he loved.

The crowd cried, "Don’t reproach the lad, whose charm

Makes up for all his faults, who means no harm,

Whose only wish is that nobility

And truth attend his father’s sovereignty.

Accept him as he is; one day his son

Will do to him whatever he has done."

When Hormoz saw his son, his counterpart

That like a ripening fruit rejoiced his heart,

Who was so wise, and in whose noble mind

Insight and self-control would be combined,

He knew this noble scion had been given

The royal farr12 that is bestowed by heaven.

He kissed his head, and blessed him, and decreed

The royal armies were now his to lead.

When Khosrow left Hormoz, the world proclaimed

A new authority had now been named –

Justice shone from his face, and sovereignty

And royal radiance, for all to see.

Khosrow Dreams of His Grandfather

13

When the black scented ringlets of the night

Appeared, and darkness overwhelmed the light,

The trickster moon replaced the lantern sun14

And Khosrow prayed, now that the day was done,

Then deeply slept, as though to make up for

The hours of sleep he’d lost the night before.

He dreamed he saw his grandfather, who said,

"Hail, newly risen sun, whose light will spread

Throughout the world; four things were lost by you,

And I shall give you four, but they’ll be new:

It might be bitter as young grapes to lose

The thieving youngster you could not excuse –

But Fortune’s sweetest sweetheart will embrace

You soon, and be your helpmate in his place;

Then there’s the crippled horse you can’t forget,

But treat his absence now without regret –

Instead, you’ll own Shabdiz, a pitch-black steed

Unrivaled in its stamina and speed

That in its galloping across the plains

Outpaces tempests and wild hurricanes;

Third, when the angry king bequeathed your throne

To one whose house you’d treated as your own,

Your luck had not run out, since you’ll be given

A royal throne bestowed by God in heaven

So firmly founded that it seems to be

Rooted as though it were a golden tree;

And fourth, the patient way you seemed content

To lose your harpist and his instrument

Will be repaid by Barbad,15 who could make

A man drink poison for his sweet song’s sake;

In place of stones, there’s gold; in place of dross

Four jewels will compensate you for your loss."

When the prince woke up from his dream, he prayed

Once more to the Creator for His aid;

Now silent day and night, preoccupied,

His spectral grandfather became his guide.

He stayed awake with scholars every night,

Questioning, listening, till the morning light,

Brooding on what he heard, so that he’d find

With ease the things now lodged within his mind.

Shapur Describes Shirin and Khosrow Falls in Love with Her

Prince Khosrow had a close friend named Shapur

Who’d traveled from the Maghreb to Lahore –

As a fine painter he was Mani’s16 equal,

To Euclid’s volumes he could write the sequel;

He painted portraits, and his hand was free

And sure enough to work from memory

Or from imagination – either way

There was no face that he could not portray;

So subtle was his skill that he could draw

On water’s surface anything he saw.

Before Khosrow Parviz, he bowed his head

And kissed the earth, and quietly he said,

"If the king orders me,17 if he’s concerned,

I’ll tell him one percent18 of all I’ve learned."

The king replied, "My noble friend, be bold,

Don’t let this opportunity grow cold!"

Shapur began, using his eloquence

To speak of glory and magnificence:

"While the world lasts may it submit to you,

And may the months and years bless all you do;

Woe to the man who envies your success

Or who begrudges you your happiness,

And may your youth and beauty both abide

As twins that grow together side by side;

May all you wish for fall into your hand

And may success touch everything you’ve planned.

I’ve trekked about this hovel19 tirelessly

And many marvels have astounded me;

I’ve journeyed over mountains, and I’ve seen

Harbors and ports ruled over by a queen

Who is descended from a royal clan

(Her armies threaten even Isfahan).

From Aran to Arman,20 all of the land

Belongs to her, to govern and command;

She rules the marches there, and claims to